By: Total Bozo
We do not have any pictures of kangaroos with sunglasses. We do not know or care about the top 18 worst ways to
wear a bra. Doctors don’t hate us. We will not do anything next that will blow
your mind or leave you speechless or make you cry or, probably, surprise you at
all.
We are ashamed of our own opinions most of
the time.
Say something happens, in the news, a news
thing. Do we have an opinion? Yeah, probably, if we force ourselves to.
Probably that news thing is indicative of a larger trend which maybe we hadn’t
considered. Maybe that news thing really means something other than what most
people think it means and the only way to understand it is to think outside of
the box. Definitely the news thing that happened “really means” something. It’s
got to, right? We can’t be all alone, floating out in the cold uncaring universe,
just having news things happen to us without any reason or meaning. No. Not that.
So we can force ourselves to have an opinion if we sometimes give in to the
crushing lonely frightened need to have an opinion.
But we are ashamed of our own opinions most
of the time. Most of the time it’s better to stop and take a look at what is
currently happening around us and go “oh, a thing” and then be there where we
are 100%. Most of the time that’s better than having an opinion. But we have
opinions sometimes. But we are ashamed of our own opinions most of the time.
Opinions are a concession to frailty. We are not proud of them. We do not stand
by them. Any of them. We would like to apologize for any opinions we have
dragged out of the recesses of our ego-riddled brains, hastily constructed in a
fury of word processing, and foisted upon the world. This is a formal apology.
We are ashamed of our opinions.
We are not “plugged in” to “what is
happening.” We do not have a “hot take.” We have a cold take. We have no take.
We have a side take, a joke take, a cosmic joke take. We are telling you about
things you already know, and about things you don’t have any interest in, and
about things it is impossible to have any interest in. We are not eulogizing
anybody on Twitter. We are not analyzing anybody’s impact. People don’t die on
Twitter. They die in reality.
Except Paul Walker. Paul Walker died
exclusively on Twitter. As far as we have experienced it, there is no such
reality as Paul Walker, only “that face man from that movie.” He was a real
human to some people somewhere. We have respect for that, but we are not
involved in it. What if Paul Walker’s daughter one day read this? We would hope
she understood. Her father is her father, but to us he is like how the guy from
Counting Crows is to her: a guy from a thing you know about, and that is our
limit. It is sad, that we can’t all be and know and care about each other, but
it is true, and it’s not the cruelest truth there is.
This is the only thing we have ever written
or thought about Paul Walker. He died four months ago, which is 400,000 Twitter
years. This the speed and tone and necessity of our “take” on Paul Walker, recently
dead famous movie face talking man, a man who died exactly the way the rest of
us will: eventually. This is about what you can expect from us. We have a
feeling it is not helpful to you and we’re sorry about that. Like we said: we
are ashamed.
We’ve given you no reason to click on us.
We can’t think of one reason why anybody
would ever want to click on us. Our minds are completely boggled about this.
Bloggled, even. Oh man. That’s kind of funny. “Mindbloggling.” Has that been a
joke before now? Of
course it has. Ugh. Oh man, this just turned into the worst thing ever.
This paragraph is like when you get a Facebook invite to go to a Star Trek-themed
improv show, and because there is a red number in your update panel, you click
on it and you see it and for even an instant of your life you are looking at it,
and you think “one of my biggest failings as a person is living my life in such
a way that it includes this moment in it.” That’s how bad of a joke phrase “mindbloggling”
is. And we did it. We re-did it. We’ve kept it alive. We are deeply, deeply
ashamed.
We have given several good reasons not to
ever click on us.
We have been boring, and cynical, and
pointless, and dated, and not nearly as funny as we clearly think we are, and fatalistic
and negative, and outrageously self-indulgent, and probably also sexist and
racist and Marxist and whateverist elseist you hate mostist. We’ve been
nothing. We have literally been less than nothing. We’ve seen the numbers. They
aren’t good. To use the word “outrageous” to describe how self-indulgent we’ve
been is laughable. We’ve outraged nobody. We’d say we’re so small time as to be
incapable of producing even mild concern,
but certain highly paid legal teams out in the actual world, which kills us, have
disagreed with that. The only reason we can think of why anybody’s ever clicked
on us is because we might be made to owe them money. The rest of it, to the
rare extent that it’s ever happened, baffles us.
You people are nuts.
What are you doing with your life, reading
us? Stop it. Please don’t read us. You’re better than that. You should write
something for us. Or you should stop reading anything ever and go do something.
You should flush your smart phone down the toilet you are currently sitting on.
We love you, and that’s why we want more for
you.
Anyway, it’s been a year. Thanks for it, if
you exist, which probably you don’t. But still. Thanks for being a thing of our
imagination. We need it. We are troubled and we are stupid, and we don’t blame
you for not existing. But if you don’t mind, we’re going to keep pretending you
do exist, and we’re going to keep on being Total Bozos for no reason.
Please don’t read us. Please don’t follow us
on Twitter. Please don’t tell your friends. Thanks.
